The Wicked Witch of the Westminster Kennel Club
by AiredaleLady
Summary: A mysterious witch is stealing champion dogs from the prestigious Westminster Kennel Club show. Can Scooby and the gang solve this case b/f Scooby's girlfriend is next?
1. I

The Wicked Witch of the Westminster Kennel Club

By Mlle. Dinkley

Disclaimer: Scooby-Doo and all related characters and elements are trademarks of Hanna-Barbera and/or Warner Brothers. All rights reserved. This is an amateur, not-for-profit work, and is not intended to infringe upon the property of the original copyright holder or holders. This piece is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any persons and/or animals, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

A/N: This story is a sequel to "The Great Dane Napping," but features only two characters from that story. You need not have read "The Great Dane Napping" to follow this story. 

****

I

"…_And now, making her run around the ring is Champion Sandhill's Desert Rose, know by her handler as "Rosie."_

A hush fell upon the crowd at Madison Square Garden as the graceful Afghan Hound trotted alongside its handler, its long, silky coat swaying in the gentle breeze created by the dog's movements. 

**__**

"This is Rosie's third consecutive appearance at the Westminster Kennel Club show; last year, she represented the Hound group in the 'Best in Show' competition, beating out the favorite, Champion Jermiah's Jumping Jericoh, the Jack Russell Terrier. If all goes well, we should be seeing Rosie and her handler in the Best in Show competition this year too." 

Having finished their run around the ring, the dog and its handler paused in front of the official, both waiting patiently as the judge carefully scrutinized every hair and muscle on the beautiful dog's body. Nodding his approval, the judge signaled for the dog and its handler to take their second run around the ring. 

Seconds into the pair's first steps, the florescent lights on the ceiling began to flash. "What the..?" the surprised judge muttered out loud, lifting his head toward the ceiling in an attempt to locate the source of the flicker; but before he could discern it, the lights went out, momentarily plunging the arena into darkness. An audible murmur arose from the previously hushed crowd as the confused spectators tried to make sense of the strange happenings. 

An electric buzzing sound filled the dark exhibit hall. The ceiling lights flickered again, as if an emergency generator had kicked in, but instead of replacement lighting, a bright green flash filled the air, followed by the eerie sound of cackling laughter. A collective gasp rose from the crowd as the stunned exhibitors, judges and spectators beheld the spooky sight in front of them. 

Floating just below the ceiling was the figure of a woman clad in the long, black robe of a medieval sorceress; her face glowed an eerie green, accentuated by the strange ambient lighting in the hall. In its left hand, the figure held a pentagram-capped scepter, which pointed directly towards the crowd below. 

The witch let forth an evil cackle. "No one shall win at this show, now or ever! The Westminster curse shall strike all who set foot in the show ring from this day forth." The demonic figure punctuated its announcement with another cackle. She raised the scepter above her head then thrust its headpiece toward the judges and handlers standing in the ring. With an electric crackle, a blinding flash of green light shot forth from the staff, revealing the form of a demonic mastiff baring its teeth. The demonic dog let forth an unearthly roar. "Let the curse of Westminster befall all those who set foot in the ring at this show," she cackled, before disappearing in a bright flash of green light and a cloud of smoke. The handlers and the judge in the ring looked away, shielding their eyes from the flash and the acrid smoke that filled the arena. 

As the smoke dissipated and the florescent lighting returned, the stunned spectators and judges gasped at the sight in front of them. The beautiful Afghan Hound, which had stood in the ring only moments before, had vanished without a trace. Her frightened handler gasped in sadness and surprise. "Rosie!" 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fred Jones sat calmly and confidently in the driver's seat of the Mystery Machine, skillfully driving the van through the crowded streets of Manhattan. The city's infamous traffic conditions would have cowed a lesser person, but the blond man seemed almost oblivious to the noisy, somewhat rude antics of his fellow drivers. "It sure was nice of Mr. Wyndham to invite us to the dog show," he commented, never even taking his eyes off the road. 

"And what a treat it will be," replied the bespectacled girl in the passenger's seat. "The Westminster Kennel Club show is the oldest and most prestigious dog show in the country." Velma reached down to the floor and picked up a well-worn copy of the American Kennel Club's _The Complete Dog Book._ "There are over one hundred fifty breeds recognized by the AKC," she continued. "I can't wait to see all the different dogs." She turned to the group's resident dog lover, seated in the back with his travelling companion, a large, brown-coated Great Dane. "What about you guys?" she asked, curiously. 

"R'I'm excited," Scooby replied, eagerly. "R'I get to see Rala again!" The enamored Great Dane sighed contently as he dropped to the floor of the van, taking an old towel between his front paws and nuzzling it as if it were a dog. "Aaah, Rala," he breathed, romantically, recalling Marc Wyndham's beautiful champion Great Dane and drifting off into a state of canine reverie. 

"I thought Marc Wyndham retired from the show ring," commented Daphne. 

"He did," Velma replied, "or at least he intended to. Shortly after we solved that case for him, he received a letter from the show's secretary stating that he and his dog had earned an automatic bid to Westminster. He accepted the invitation, but stated blatantly that this would be Kala's last show, sort of her 'last hurrah'--and his—before he leaves the world of dog showing for good. An invitation as exclusive as this you just cannot turn down."

"Well I hope his crazy ex-wife doesn't decide to crash the show," joked Daphne, though there was a hint of concern in her tone. 

Velma smiled. "I don't think she will, not unless she broke out of prison." The bespectacled girl began enumerating the counts against Laura Whitney, Marc's ex-wife. "Six counts of animal torture, one count of animal cruelty, breaking and entering, possession of stolen property…she'll be behind bars for awhile, and with her bellicose personality, I doubt that she will be getting out for good behavior." 

"That's a relief," the redhead replied.

The Mystery Machine pulled up to a large, underground parking structure, on top of which stood an immense building. "Well, here we are, gang," Fred announced, "Madison Square Garden."

Daphne, Velma and Shaggy glanced upward at the structure in front of them. "The exhibit hall and arena share a common entrance with a train station and a subway station," commented Velma, reading from her New York guidebook, "thereby giving the illusion that the facility is larger than it actually is." 

"Illusion or not," said Shaggy, "like, something this big has got to have some decent eating places in it." He glanced at his canine companion. "Once we get in, like, how's about we check out the concession stands, eh Scoob?" 

The Great Dane licked its lips with an audible slurp. "Reah, r'ets eat." 

"You two can raid the concession stands later," admonished Fred. "Right now, we should get inside and find Marc." 

The four humans and the dog walked up to the entrance of the exhibit hall; a heavy-set man in a security uniform stopped them in front of the turnstiles. The guard looked past straight past Fred, Velma and Daphne, focusing directly on Shaggy and his canine companion. "Hold it, kids," the guard announced, gruffly, putting his hands up in a 'stop' position, "only dogs entered in the show are allowed inside the exhibit halls; no other dogs allowed!" 

Scooby looked up at the guard. "Rog?" he queried, puzzled, "r'where?"

"Uh, we were invited here by one of the handlers, Mr. Marc Wyndham," Fred explained, "he told us to meet him in the exhibit hall." 

The guard looked sternly at the blond man, as if evaluating his story. After a few minutes, he relented. "Well, I can let you three in, but that kid's gotta dump his dog." 

Fred shook his head in defeat. The gang's—especially Shaggy's--closeness to Scooby sometimes led them to forget that the latter was a dog and did not merit the same treatment as his fellow, two-legged travelling companions. Scooby seemed to realize that he was the cause of the problem and made a feeble attempt at reasoning with the door guard. "Rut r'I'm ramous," the Great Dane insisted, "R'I'm Scooby-Doo." The skinny man corroborated the dog's statement, but the guard wasn't buying it. 

"I don't care if he's Lassie," the guard insisted. "The rules are clear: 'no outside dogs' means no outside dogs. Now you either remove that dog, or I will have to have you forcefully removed from the premises." 

Shaggy looked woefully at Fred, Velma and Daphne, as if hoping that they could reason with the guard. The blond man shook his head. "We'll meet you inside," he intoned, monotonously, as he and the girls walked through the turnstiles and into the exhibit hall. 

Shaggy and Scooby watched, dejectedly. "Come on, Scoob," the skinny man sighed, "you heard the man; like, we're not welcome here." The Dane looked longingly at the closed doors, before turning to follow his master back to the parking lot. 

His tail tucked between his legs and his head lowered, Scooby whined, pitifully, the mournful sound echoing off the walls of the parking garage. 

"Like, don't worry, Scoob," Shaggy reassured him. "We'll get you in, it just may take awhile."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The giant Great Dane was not too enthralled about wearing the 'grandmother costume' for a second time. The strong floral scent of the perfume irritated his sensitive nose and the narrow, high-heeled shoes pinched his oversize paws. No matter what he did, Scooby just could not seem to get comfortable in the costume. If he walked on all fours, he tripped over the long dress and stumbled on the shoes; if he walked on his hind legs, the dress was no longer a hindrance, but now, the shoes interfered with his gait. And despite having walked on his hind legs many times, he was still ungainly in his steps and would frequently topple forward. 

"Now remember, Scoob," Shaggy whispered, "don't say anything, just like, walk on through."

"R'okay."

Shaggy approached the arena entrance once again, this time with his "grandmother" in tow. The same guard who had turned him back only an hour earlier still stood at his post, eyes peeled, as if on the look-out for anyone else trying to sneak an unauthorized dog into the show. 

"Like, two," said Shaggy, flashing the guard the tickets (actually, one ticket and the side panel from a box of Scooby snacks). 

"Enjoy the show," the guard intoned, monotonously, completely oblivious to the con. 

"Like, thanks man," said Shaggy, walking past the guard and through the turnstiles a few yards further on. He paused to watch Scooby's attempt at doing the same. Scooby walked effortlessly past the guard, but as he passed through the turnstiles, he tripped over the shoes, snagging the lower portion of his dress on the turnstile bars. The fabric stretched, allowing the dog to walk forward, then promptly snapped back, taking Scooby with it. "Yowwww!" the dog howled, spinning around the bars and tearing the dress in the process. 

Shaggy put a finger to his lips, hushing the dog and helping him out of his entanglement; he hoped that the security guard had not seen or heard any of the spectacle. "What the…" the guard intoned, turning his head in the direction of the noise. 

Glancing over his shoulder, Shaggy verified that the guard was still at his post, relieved to see that he was. Shaggy wiped his brow, then continued to disentangle Scooby from the turnstile bars. Shaggy knew that he had to work quickly. Quickly taking out a pocketknife, he began cutting through the fabric of the dress. Moments later, the giant dog was able to move freely, but not before the guard began to approach the entryway. 

"I swear I heard a dog," he muttered to himself, looking around, but seeing no one other than Shaggy and the old woman accompanying him. Believing himself to be mistaken, the guard turned around and walked back to his post at the entrance. 

Shaggy and Scooby sighed collectively in relief. "Come on, Scoob, like, let's go find Fred and the girls." 

The Dane obliged, remaining on his hind legs and stumbling in the costume. 

"I guess we fooled that security guy, eh Scoob?" quipped Shaggy.

The dog chuckled in response, not noticing that the lower portion of his dress had fallen away, revealing his tail and bow-legged stance.

From his post at the door, the guard began having second thoughts. _That was the ugliest lady I've ever seen,_ the guard thought to himself. _If I didn't know any better, I'd say she looked like a dog._


	2. II

****

II

Fred, Velma and Daphne stood inside the grooming area, talking with Marc Wyndham. "Thank you so much for inviting us," said Daphne. "We're really thrilled to be here." She bent over and scratched the golden yellow Great Dane behind its ears. "Hello, Kala," Daphne cooed, "it's great to see you again, too."

Marc finished running a grooming glove over the dog's smooth, glossy coat, then turned to face the gang. "It was the least I could do to thank you guys for recovering Kala's puppies and for helping to expedite my divorce case." The man did a doubletake as he noticed that the gang was one member short. "Speaking of Kala's puppies," Marc continued, "where is Scooby?" 

As if on cue, the dog in question appeared in the doorway, sporting high-heels, a floppy hat and the remnants of his dress; Marc Wyndham's jaw dropped in disbelief at the sight of Scooby's costume. "Why on earth is he dressed like that?" the older man asked, a hint of disdained intrigue detectable in his voice. 

Shaggy shrugged. "Oh, like, it's a long story, man," he explained, removing the last shreds of Scooby's dress and wiping away the lipstick and makeup.

"Reah," the Great Dane echoed, "rong story." 

"So, like, when does Kala here enter the show ring?" asked Shaggy. "We want to make sure we don't miss it."

The older man shrugged his shoulders. "Well, that's just it; I'm debating on whether or not I even want to take her into the ring."

"Why's that, Mr. Wyndham?" asked Fred, puzzled by the man's response. 

"Well, lately, there have been some really strange things going on around here. In the last two days, three top prospect dogs have mysteriously vanished from the judging ring." 

"Disappeared?" asked Velma, in disbelief, "how can a dog simply disappear from the ring—and in front of a crowd of spectators, too?"

Marc hesitated for a moment before continuing his story, "Well, those who have witnessed the incidents reported seeing a strange, luminous specter floating below the ceiling just before the dogs vanished. The people on the kennel club's board of directors call this specter 'the Westminster Witch.'" The sound of the word 'witch' sent Shaggy and Scooby into convulsions of fear, while at the same time, piquing the interest of the stauncher members of Mystery Inc.

"Witch?" asked Velma, her voice brightening at the mention of a potential mystery, "what's this about a witch?"

"It's a story that dates back to the show's origins in the United Kingdom," explained Marc. "A disgruntled handler put a curse on the show simply because her dog did not win, and the curse supposedly lingers to this day." 

"But that's only a story, isn't it?" queried Daphne. 

"Supposedly," replied Marc, "but no one is taking any chances. All of the dogs that have vanished thus far have been high profile show champions, and many handlers are withdrawing for fear that their dog might be the next victim of this curse. I was never one to believe in curses, but I don't want to take a chance; that's why I'm hesitating on taking Kala into the ring. The strange thing is that in spite of the high number of withdrawals, the show superintendent refuses to cancel the show."

Velma's brain was already in high gear. In her years of solving mysteries, she and the rest of the gang (except perhaps shaggy and Scooby) had developed an almost innate ability to sense inconsistencies within a person's story, inconsistencies that she and Fred were often able to turn into clues. Velma began to ponder the situation, when her thoughts were interrupted by a voice from behind her. 

"Well, if Kala withdraws from the show, I guess that means my dog and I will be taking 'best of breed' honors for the Great Dane this year."

Fred, Velma and Daphne turned around to see another handler and a dog standing in front of them. The man was about Fred's height, with a mop of equally blond hair, but where Fred's hair was straight, the older man's was wavy, and the older man sported a tie in place of Fred's ascot. A black and white, harlequin patterned Great Dane stood majestically at the man's side. 

"Who are you?" Fred politely asked his older look-alike.

Marc hesitated again. "I'm sorry, I should have introduced you earlier. Kids, this is Preston Durraley, a fellow Great Dane breeder and exhibitor." Marc individually introduced the gang. 

"You mean a _rival_ breeder and exhibitor," Preston corrected. "Kala here beat out Champion Durraley's Domineering Danois Darling two years ago at this same show."

"Rurrary's Romineering Ranois Rarling?" questioned Scooby, his head spinning at the mention of such a long and complicated name. Preston Durraley shot a curious look in Scooby's direction, scowling at the sight of a non-regulation color Great Dane. 

"If Kala withdraws from the show," Preston continued, "then I am almost guaranteed of winning." 

"Aren't you worried about the curse befalling your dog?" asked Daphne. 

"Nah. The curse of the Westminster Witch is a bunch of hooey; only an amateur would withdraw from a dog show on account of a curse." The tall man offered Marc Wyndham a slight sneer, provoking a low growl from Kala. 

"I never said anything about withdrawing," Marc countered, "I'm just taking precautionary measures." 

"Well curse or no curse, one thing is certain," said Fred, "and that is that three dogs have disappeared in the last two days. There is just no telling who will be the next victim; it could be your dog, it could be Kala, it could even be Scooby." 

Scooby gave a scared whimper at the thought of being dognapped by a witch. 

"It looks like we've got another mystery on our hands," asserted Fred. "If you don't mind, we'd like to look into this further."

Marc began mentally debating Fred's proposition. Chary of mixing business with pleasure, the older man did not want to involve the kids in a case when they were supposedly in vacation. Still, he reasoned, it would be a lot easier to explain a rash of "supernatural" dog-nappings to Mystery Inc. than to the police. After thinking it over, Marc gave the okay.

"Shaggy, Scooby and I will stay here and have a look around," began Fred, "and Velma, you and Daphne can go question the show superintendent, Marc gave you her address."

"We'll do," replied Velma, giving Fred a 'thumbs-up' signal, grateful that he had, for once, sent her off with someone other than Shaggy. 

"How long do you think Shag and Scoob will survive with Fred?" the redhead asked, as they exited the arena and headed for the subway station.

"I'd give them three hours, maximum," chuckled Velma, "and when Fred cracks, I'm sure we will hear Shag and Scoob's screams all the way across town!"


	3. III

****

III

Valerie Lamar sat behind her desk in the Manhattan office of the Westminster Kennel Club. A, dark-hared woman in her early fifties, she had worked her way up through the ranks of the dog show world, first as a breeder, then as a handler then as a kennel club administrator, eventually earning a post as superintendent of the most prestigious dog show in the country. The walls of her office attested to her past accomplishments, displaying photographs of past show winners, merit certificates and a framed, mounted collection of multi-colored rosette ribbons that she won during her days as a handler. Valerie's assistant knocked on the door. "Excuse me, Ms.Lamar, there are two young women from Mystery Inc. here to see you; they want to talk to you about the dog show."

"Send them in," Valerie replied, motioning for Velma and Daphne to come into the office. "Make yourselves comfortable," the older woman invited, "I assume you're here about the witch."

"Yes, we are," said Velma, "and if you don't mind, we'd like to ask you a few questions."

"What's there really to say—it's self explanatory." It was not the response that the bespectacled girl had been expecting, but from her experience, she knew that it was not uncommon for people to be reticent about such an unbelievable phenomenon as a dognapping witch. 

"Those are some really beautiful dogs in those pictures," commented Daphne, taking an alternate approach to engaging the woman in a conversation. 

"And they should be," answered Valerie. "Those are the 'Best in Show' winners from Westminster from the past twenty years." Valerie got up from her desk and walked over to the "wall of fame" and began describing every dog's accomplishments in detail. "That's Champion Race the Wind's Kahlua Crème, the Great Dane who won two years ago; that's Champion Goforit's Michigan J., the German Shepherd from three years ago; and that's Champion Jerimiah's Jumping Jericho, the Jack Russell Terrier that won last year." 

"I thought last year's winner was an Afghan Hound," queried Velma, "why isn't that dog's picture up there?"

A knock on the door interrupted Valerie's potential response, as her assistant once again peered into the office. "I'm sorry to interrupt again, Ms. Lamar, James Preston from Madison Square Garden events scheduling is on the phone." 

Valerie gave a disgusted sigh. "Put him through," she intoned, monotonously, cursing under her breath just before picking up the phone. "Hello…look, Mister Preston, if I told you once, I told you a thousand times, I am **_not_** canceling the dog show on account of some idiot pulling a Halloween prank in February; I will allow a postponement, but that is all…I said no; do not call me again, Mister Prescott, that is not a request. Good bye." Valerie slammed down the phone with a disgusted sigh as she sank down in her chair. 

"What was that all about?" asked Daphne, curious.

"The brass up at Madison Square Garden keep pestering me to cancel the show, and I've said a thousand times that I refuse to do so."

"But why?" asked Velma. "From what Marc Wyndham has told us, handlers are withdrawing their dogs from the show at an alarming rate because they fear that the witch might steal their dog next."

"Well, that's their loss," Valerie replied, "if they are too scared to compete, then that gives another handler a chance. Anyway, do you realize how stupid it would look if I were to cancel the most prestigious dog show in the country on account of some silly Halloween prank gone awry? I'd be disgraced!" The disgruntled woman faced Velma and Daphne. "Now unless you have some constructive questions for me, I'll have to ask you to leave."

The two girls faced each other and shrugged. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Lamar," said Velma, attempting to soften the inquisition to which she and Daphne had just subjected the woman.

Valerie said nothing; she was all too happy to have the meddling girls out of her office.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Scooby gave a contented sigh as he looked around the arena. There were just so many things to check out, so many dogs to see, so many new scents to smell and so many concession stands to raid; it was the closest he could get to canine heaven without first dying. With his nose to the ground, Scooby began his quest to sniff out every square inch of Madison Square Garden, never once raising his head, which made it difficult for him to see the source of the scent. He was so engrossed in his sniffing that he didn't realize he was committing a human faux-pas as he raised his head to look physically upon the source of the scent. Scooby was immediately jarred from his dream-like state as he felt a hand push his head away, and heard a stern, booming voice utter, "Can I help you?" Horrified and embarrassed by his dog's behavior, Shaggy grabbed Scooby by the collar and quickly dragged him back before he could do any more damage to the man's black trousers. 

"I'm sorry about our dog's behavior, sir," apologized Fred, "are you one of the handlers?" 

"No," the man replied, "I'm a judge, actually." The man extended his hand to Fred in a friendly introductory gesture. "The name's Harry Dale, I'm one of the judges for the terrier group." 

"Pleased to meet you," the blond man replied, gesturing to his two cohorts. "I'm Fred Jones. This is Shaggy Rogers and Scooby Doo." Following the introductions, he asked, "Tell me, Mister Dale, have you actually seen the witch?"

Harry's shrugged. "Unfortunately, I have; she stole one of the dogs while I was judging it—a little Cairn Terrier. The witch just swooped down from the ceiling, pointed her scepter at us, then disappeared with the dog."

"Like, maybe the wicked witch of the Westminster mistook that dog for Toto and took it back to Oz," Shaggy quipped. "Get it, Scoob? Wicked Witch of the West…minster?"

The Great Dane burst into a heavy fit of laughter, then abruptly stopped. "R'I don't get it." 

"That Cairn was the third dog taken and the second terrier at that," continued Harry. "Handlers are withdrawing from the show because they fear for their dogs' safety. If anymore dogs withdraw, there will be no point in having the show, but Valerie Lamar, the show superintendent, refuses to cancel the show." 

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," came a female voice. "If Ms Lamar really loves dogs as much as she claims she does, then she would worry about their safety and cancel the show." The voice belonged to a tall, dark haired woman in her in her mid thirties. She wore an expensive Chanel suit, on the lapel of which was pinned a small brooch in the shape of a Scottie dog. In her left hand, she held a thin, cloth leash, attached to the end of which was a white and brown, smooth coated Jack Russell Terrier. The little dog stood about one-third of Scooby's height, but could jump high enough to nearly land on the Great Dane's back. "Who are you?" asked Fred.

"This is Melissa McDaniels," announced Harry Dale, "she's the handler of Champion Jerimiah's Jumping Jericho." 

"Last year's favorite," added Melissa, "last year's should-have-been winner, too; but I guess there's no such thing as being the 'runner up' at Westminster." The woman chuckled at her own joke, while her dog continued bouncing up and down, as if he stood on four coiled springs instead of four legs.

"Like, he's certainly an energetic little guy," commented Shaggy, noticing the dog's three-foot-high jump.

"Well that's where he gets his name," said Melissa, "but he's actually not my dog; he belongs to my husband. He's the unofficial mascot of his rock band."

"Like, your husband plays in a rock band? That's totally groovy!"

"Yeah. In fact, they even titled their album, _The Walls of Jericho,_ after Jay Jay here." 

Shaggy's eyes widened at the mention of the album title. "Oh man, you mean to tell me that your husband is Jeremy McDaniels, lead guitarist of the Dead Strawberries? Like, they're my favorite group!"

"They just played here a couple nights ago, actually, just before the dog show," said Melissa, attempting to change the conversation's topic from rock music back to dog shows. "Anyway, Mister Dale," she continued, "I am concerned about Jay Jay's well being, but I haven't decided to withdraw as of yet." 

"This witch seems to have a thing about terriers," observed Fred, "maybe you should withdraw, just for Jay Jay's own safety."

Melissa frowned at the blond man. "I can make my own decisions without the advice of some meddling kid," she grumbled, scooping her dog up in her arms and walking off. "I'll be in touch, Mister Dale."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Gee, Velma. Valerie became awfully defensive when that man called and suggested canceling the show," commented Daphne, as she and Velma made their way back to the Garden. "That in itself is awfully strange." 

"I agree," echoed Velma. "But we need some more information. Why don't we meet up with the boys and tell them what we found; after that, we should go and talk to mister Preston in scheduling."


	4. IV

****

IV

"You mean she didn't tell you anything?" commented an exasperated Fred. 

The girls nodded affirmatively in response. Behind them, in the judging ring, stood twelve Siberian Huskies, lined up, waiting to take their run around the ring.

"She didn't offer any potential clues or mention anyone who might have a grudge against her?" 

Velma and Daphne shook their heads. 

"Well, for someone whose big event is plagued by a rash of thefts, she's certainly keeping very tight lipped."

A beautiful, brown and white Husky and its handler made their way around the ring, stopping for examination in front of the judge. 

"The only time she became really vocal was when someone from Madison Square Garden event scheduling called and suggested canceling the show on account of the disturbances," recalled Daphne. "Valerie was really adamant that the show go on as scheduled, in spite of the rash of dog-nappings."

"That is strange," said Fred, trying to make sense of the woman's actions, "but what's even stranger is that we haven't seen that witch yet." 

As if on cue from the blond man, the arena lighting began to dim. An electric crackling sound filled the air, followed by the acrid odor of sulfuric smoke. With a blinding flash of greenish light, and a burst of demonic laughter, the sorceress appeared. 

"Zoinks!" shrieked Shaggy, pointing to the figure floating just below the ceiling, "like, why don't you ask **_her_**?" 

The three other humans and Scooby looked toward the ceiling, gasping in shock at what they saw. 

"Let the curse of Westminster befall all who dare to set foot in the show ring!" cackled the witch. In another green flash and a burst of smoke, she was gone.

The four humans hacked and coughed, nearly choking on the acrid smoke. "Like, I can't see a thing," complained Shaggy, fanning the air around him.

"Re reither," echoed the Dane.

"I hope that dog is okay," worried Daphne, even though intuitively, she knew the fate of the husky. 

Nearly five minutes passed before the smoke dissipated enough for the gang to see. The witch was gone, as was the husky that had stood in the ring only minutes earlier. 

"Oh that poor dog," said Daphne, shaking her head, partly in sympathy, partly in contempt for the dognapping witch. "We've got to solve this case before any more dogs disappear."

"Yeah," added Shaggy, "like poor Scoob could be next, or even Kala." 

Scooby drew back in fear at the thought of being snatched by a witch.

"Well the first thing we ought to do is look around here for any clues," announced Fred; wordlessly, the rest of the gang did as the blond man said. Even Scooby plunged headlong into the search, for it gave him the opportunity to sniff around the other dogs and to conduct his own, more personal investigations. 

The Dane circled the area where the husky had last stood, detecting an unfamiliar odor. "What'cha got, Scoob?" asked Shaggy, curious. The Dane did not answer, but continued to sniff in circles, as though trying to discern the source of the unfamiliar odor; his hind paw lightly brushed against a piece of paper, kicking it into the air. Shaggy bent over to catch the scrap, noting that it was lightly singed, as though someone had accidentally brushed against it with a cigarette butt. "Like, what have we here?" he mused to himself, trying to decide whether or not the paper was relevant to the investigation. Deciding it was little more than a discarded scrap, he wadded it up and prepared to toss it into a nearby wastebasket. 

"Wait, Shaggy. Don't throw that away!"

Shaggy turned around abruptly to face the source of the comment. "Huh?" he asked, scratching his head, "like why, Velma?" 

"Let me see that scrap a minute." The lanky man handed his companion the paper; she proceeded to subject it to a battery of analyses, including sniffing it. "This is no ordinary paper, Shaggy," she announced. "This is flash paper."

"Rash raper?" Scooby asked, perplexed. 

"Yes, a special type of paper designed to hold powdered magnesium. Before flash bulbs were invented, photographers would line their flash unit with this paper, then pour the powdered magnesium onto it." 

"But what's it doing here?" asked Daphne.

"I don't know yet," replied Velma, "but it is our solidest clue thus far."

"But what can we do with it?" asked Daphne, "it doesn't bring us any closer to finding the culprit."

"We'll have to do a little more investigating in order to find that out," began Fred. "Shaggy, you and…" 

"What's going on here?" The sudden remark caught the blond man by surprise, abruptly cutting him off in the middle of his orders. Fred turned around to see Melissa McDaniels standing in front of him. 

"The witch just struck again, Mrs. McDaniels," said Fred, "and she stole another dog."

Melissa shook her head in disgust. "I was afraid of this," she grumbled. "I don't know why they don't just cancel the show; it's stupid not to." 

"Well, we'll do whatever we have to in order to solve this case," asserted Fred. He continued his orders from before. "Velma, you and I will go talk with Mister Preston in scheduling; and Shaggy, you, Daphne and Scooby can look around here for more clues."


	5. V

****

V

Velma and Fred made their way down the narrow hallway to the Garden's executive offices, stopping in front of the door marked "Scheduling." The blond man stood for a moment, debating whether to knock or not, when the weight of his own body pushed the door open. He stumbled forward unexpectedly, managing to regain his upright posture just before entering the office. Startled by the disturbance, a thin, red haired receptionist glanced up to see who or what had just made an unannounced entrance. "Can I help you?" she asked, in a heavy Brooklyn accent, apparently somewhat miffed at the disturbance. 

"Yes, Madame," replied Velma, "we would like to speak with Mister James Preston."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, I'm afraid we don't," said Fred, "but we were hoping we might be able to speak with him for a few moments about the strange happenings at the dog show." 

The secretary carefully pondered the blond man's comment, as if evaluating his story for truthfulness. "Um, have a seat over there," she said, gesturing to a couch in the corner, "I'll see if Mister Preston is available." 

Fred didn't immediately sit down, preferring instead to examine the multitude of photographs hanging on the office walls. Over the years, the Garden had played host to a variety of events—political conventions, rock concerts, sporting events and "personal appearances" by cartoon characters—each of which was represented by a photograph. The blond man seemed particularly intrigued by the elaborate set-ups required for rock concerts. He leaned closer to scrutinize a photograph of a recent "Rolling Stones" concert when he was interrupted by the secretary's nasal voice. "Mister Preston said he's willing to talk to you; you can go on in, but don't take too much of his time."

"Thank you, Madame," replied Fred, as he gestured for Velma to follow him into the man's office.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"What can I tell you," began James Preston, "we just can't afford to have the dog show postponed. Our scheduling constraints are such that postponing any one event would produce a domino effect that would, in turn, affect the scheduling of all the other events." 

The blond man furrowed his brow, questioningly. "That doesn't seem very practical, to have such a tight schedule," he commented. 

"Practical or not," James replied, "it's profitable. Besides, the Garden is designed to facilitate quick changes--we can host a hockey game on Friday, then quickly change the facility in time to host a computer exposition on Monday. In general, though, we try to schedule movable events, such as rock concerts and conventions, around non-movable events, such as basketball and hockey games, thereby giving us enough time to transform the arena for the next event."

"And where do you keep all the equipment and supplies for these venue changes?"

"There is a storage area underneath the arena floor, the same place where the hockey and basketball teams' locker rooms are located." 

"What was the event immediately preceding the dog show?" asked Velma.

"A concert by the Dead Strawberries," answered James. "Technically though, whoever booked the concert should not have booked it so close to a non-movable event like the dog show. The concert ended just two days before the dog show began; we barely had time to dismantle the sets and to convert the arena." 

"Did any of the previous events report unexplained disturbances?" asked Fred. 

"No, this is the first such reported incident, and it had better be the last. If word gets out that the Garden is haunted, people might not want to book their events here anymore." 

"I have a feeling that whatever is going on is confined only to the dog show," said Fred, "don't worry mister Preston; we will get to the bottom of this."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Daphne sat on top of a carrying kennel, staring at her watch and tapping her feet impatiently. She hadn't had any luck finding clues in the grooming area, in fact, she hardly had any time to do so—much of her time had been spent babysitting Shaggy and Scooby, neither of whom had been particularly helpful in the search for clues. Shaggy was constantly worrying about whether or not the witch would show up, and Scooby was more interested in checking out Kala and her Harlequin rival. The redhead could understand the Dane's plight, though, after all, Scooby was a dog, and they _were_ at a dog show; it was only natural for him to behave in that manner. 

Daphne heaved an audible sigh of boredom; she was just about ready to search for clues without Shaggy and Scooby when the pair in question entered the room, carrying armloads of cardboard take-out trays. The redhead's jaw dropped at the sight of the pair; Marc Wyndham's expression was equally exasperated. "I send you guys to get me a soda and you bring back the whole, freaking snack bar," admonished Daphne, adding under her breath, "as if I didn't expect that."

"Like, we got hungry," countered Shaggy, handing Scooby a hamburger with all the trimmings, including sauerkraut, cheese sauce and chocolate. "Being constantly scared takes up a lot of energy." 

"Reah," echoed Scooby. "Rots of renergy."

Preston Durraley frowned at the lanky man. "Chocolate is bad for dogs," he scolded, "so are table scraps and any kind of human food." The blond man scratched his champion Great Dane behind the ears, then shot Marc a no less vituperative barb. "I can't believe you allowed your dog to mate with a non-regulation color Great Dane—and one whose owner condones feeding a dog table scraps and human food."

Marc rolled his eyes. "Lay off them, Preston; they're not in the dog show business--they're in the detective business—and how they treat their dog is none of your business." 

Preston held both of his hands up in a 'stop' position, leaning back on his heels and backing away. 

Noting the redhead's obvious discomfort and boredom, Marc offered, "You don't have to stay around here; if you want to go watch the competition, you can." 

"Thank you, Mister Wyndham," replied Daphne, grateful for the respite. "Come on, guys, let's go watch the show." 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Harry Dale stood in the middle of the ring, carefully scrutinizing a group of West Highland White Terriers and their handlers as they trotted in a circle, each pair stopping in front of him for examination. In a neighboring ring, a line of tall, shaggy Irish Wolfhounds were undergoing the same scrutiny from their judge; each dog stood the same height as Scooby, but their lanky frames carried much less weight than the Great Dane's. Daphne alternated her gaze between the two rings, occasionally glancing toward the ceiling to see if the witch was ready to make an appearance. 

As though detecting the redhead's thoughts, the specter appeared, its green robes fluttering in the in the breeze created by its movements. Harry and Daphne both gasped as they heard the witch's trademark cackle. Daphne stood her ground, but Harry immediately dove for cover as the specter swooped down from the ceiling, making a beeline for the tiny white dogs standing in the ring. With blinding flash of light and a cloud of sulphurous smoke, the witch vanished, taking one of the little white terriers with it. 

Regaining his composure, Harry Dale walked back to the ring to assess the latest damage. "Great," he groaned, "that's the third terrier that's been taken. If this keeps up, there won't be any terriers left to compete." 

Daphne glanced briefly at the neighboring ring, where the large, shaggy dogs and their handlers continued to compete, seemingly oblivious to dog napping that had just occurred. The redhead voiced her observations to no one in particular. "What I want to know is, why didn't she go after those Wolfhounds?"


	6. VI

****

VI

Daphne reported her ringside observations to Fred and Velma. The bespectacled girl listened, then gave her expert assessment. "Ve--e—ry interesting." 

"Yeah," replied Daphne, "it is, considering that most 'curses' strike indiscriminently; this is the first one I've heard of that is so selective." Abruptly changing the subject, she queried, "What did you guys find out?"

"Well, James Preston, the head of scheduling, has legitimate reasons for wanting the dog show cancelled rather than postponed," reported Fred. "It seems that the scheduling constraints at this venue are very tight."

"So, like, did you find out where they store the ice for the hockey arena?" asked Shaggy, partly serious and partly in jest, "Scoob and me were wondering if we could raid the stash and make some Sno-cones." 

"As a matter of fact," replied Fred, completely oblivious to Shaggy's joke, "we did. Underneath this floor are offices and storage facilities that are off limits to all but the performers and athletes who frequent this arena. If someone wanted to hide something, then that would be the ideal location to do so." He turned and faced the rest of the gang. "We need to check out that storage area, so, we'll have to split up again." 

"Split up?" Shaggy and Scooby whined. "Again?" Shaggy knew that his complaint was legitimate; every time the gang split up, Fred, Velma and Daphne always got to pick the safer situation, leaving the former to search the more dangerous and much spookier location; and to him, nothing was spookier than an underground storage facility. "Like, can't we stick together for once?"

"But we can't be in two places at once," Fred averred. 

Shaggy had to admit that the blond man had a pretty good point. 

"Besides," continued Velma, "in order to resolve the case in the most expedient manner possible, we need to designate specific tasks to each individual; if we all stayed together, we would reduce our expediency by half, thereby taking twice as long to solve any given cases." 

The skinny man and his dog sighed. "Okay, so, we'll split up. But, like Scoob and I are **_not_** searching the creepy underground and backstage areas of this arena by ourselves." 

"For once I agree with you," said Fred. 

Shaggy and Scooby wiped their brows, heaving audible sighs of relief. 

"You two are **_not_** going to walk around this arena by yourselves, because you'd spend all of your time either raiding the concession stands or running like chickens and you'd never get anything done." 

The pair's shoulders drooped at the sound of Fred's admonition, even though, they had to admit, there was a grain of truth to it. 

"Velma's going with you, while Daphne and I have a chat with Melissa at her apartment." 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Melissa's apartment was located on the penthouse of a high rise on Park Avenue. A maroon colored canopy hung above the entrance to the building, and a similarly colored carpet, emblazoned with the words "Marlo Towers, extended from the doors out to the curb. A smartly dressed doorman in a matching uniform stood in front of the automatic doors, as though guarding the entrance to the urban chateau. The blond man glanced upward at the towering structure. "Nice," he mused, punctuating his comment with a whistle. His redheaded companion shrugged, unimpressed; opulence and luxury were nothing new to her, having grown up in a mansion. 

The previously statuesque doorman came to life as the couple approached the entrance to the apartment complex. "May I help you?" he intoned, seemingly surprised that two casually dressed youngsters would be seeking entrance to such an exclusive apartment complex. 

"We're going up to Melissa McDaniels' apartment," Fred explained, "she is expecting us." 

The doorman shrugged. "Go ahead," he answered, gesturing towards the elevator block, then returning to his sentinel position at the door. 

The interior of the apartment was a testament to the couple's success and affluence. Looking at the décor, it wasn't difficult to deduce that Melissa's husband was in the music industry. A large, decorative guitar hung on the wall, surrounded by framed album covers and several gold records. On an adjacent wall in the same room hung pictures from Jeremy McDaniels' different concerts around the world. 

"Can I offer you kids anything?" inquired Melissa, "a soda water, perhaps?" Fred declined, but Daphne accepted, taking advantage of the woman's momentary absence to scan the room for any possible clues. The redhead surveyed the environs; her eyes immediately gravitated to a large antique bookcase. In a crystal frame, on one of the shelves, was Melissa's wedding picture; she immediately recognized the woman, and surmised that the others in the picture were members of the wedding party. Daphne stepped forward for a closer look; one of the guests in the picture looked vaguely familiar, but the redhead could not figure out where she had seen that person's likeness before. 

Up close, Daphne could now see the bookshelves' other contents; nestled amongst the leather bound volumes and paperbacks were several small, statuettes, each mounted on a pseudo-marble base. On a shelf in an adjoining bookcase were two large, silver platters and a silver loving cup. 

"I see you are admiring my trophy collection."

Melissa's comment caught the redhead by surprise, and Daphne jumped back, partly out of surprise, and partly out of fright. "Oh, uhm, yes. You certainly have quite an impressive collection." 

"Thank you," Melissa replied, handing Daphne a bottle of Perrier. "I was a gymnast when I was in college--went to the NCAA nationals three years in a row—that's where I won those. " 

"I love the music décor in here too," commented Fred, hoping to engage Melissa in a conversation about her husband's profession. "I used to dream of being in a rock band, but I never could play the guitar well enough." Daphne cringed as she remembered the blond man's one-time suggestion that the four of them form a rock group instead of a detective agency; the idea was quickly dropped on the grounds of Fred's musical inabilities and Velma, Daphne and Shaggy's lack of interest therein. 

Fred stared intently at the Dead Strawberries' concert photos. Each picture featured Jeremy with one hand on his guitar and the other raised skyward, fist clenched, Jimmy Hendrix style. Behind the band flashed a barrage of lighting effects, ranging from brightly colored magnesium flare sparkles to psychedelic strobe lighting. In one photo, the background effects were so bright that the band members appeared only as dimly lit silhouettes. Beneath each photograph was an engraved plaque, bearing the city and date of the concert: London, 2001; Washington D.C., 2000; Sydney, 2001. "Wow, The Dead Strawberries hold nothing back when they perform," Fred remarked, "is every concert like that with all the lighting and special effects?"

"Oh yes," replied Melissa. "Jeremy is really big on special effects and elaborate staging--you know, holograms, trap doors, strobe lighting, dry ice--some critics say his effects are more impressive than his music, but as far as Jeremy is concerned, the flashier, the better." 

"I bet that requires a lot of work."

"Huh, tell me about it. The Dead Strawberries have a crew of 60 electricians and engineers who travel with them, and every one of them has their work cut out for them. Jeremy always tries to top his past concerts effects-wise. In fact, for his 'Walls of Jericho' concert, he wanted a three-dimensional holographic image of Jay Jay to accompany him across the stage."

Daphne quickly changed the subject back to dogs and dog showing. "Aren't you worried about Jay Jay being dog-napped by the witch? She seems to have a fondness for terriers."

"It's not really my concern," Melissa intoned, monotonously. 

"Well, you certainly seemed concerned when you spoke to Mister Dale," commented Fred. 

Melissa shrugged. "Maybe I was, maybe I wasn't; it really isn't any business of yours. Besides, if that witch keeps snatching terriers, that means less competition for Jay Jay; he'd almost be a sure fire winner."

Daphne gave a subvvocalized response, carefully analyzing what she had just heard. 

"Speaking of dog shows, I've got to get back to the Garden; I'd be happy to give you both a lift back there if you'd like…"

Fred politely turned down the offer. "Thank you, but actually, we were thinking of doing some sight seeing on the way back; we'd hate to impose upon your schedule, madam." He and Daphne thanked Melissa for her hospitality as she showed them out the door and to the elevator bank.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The bowels of the arena were remarkably well lit for unused places, but that didn't stop Shaggy and Scooby from quaking in fear; to them, the thought of walking anywhere, other than above ground in broad daylight, was terrifying. And with their overactive imaginations, even the mundane could turn into the terrifying. Occasionally, a drip of water would fall from one of the overhead pipes, causing the Great Dane to yelp in fear; his voice would then echo off the walls, the reverberation striking even more fear into his and his owner's hearts. 

Velma regarded the pair with a mixed sense of sympathy and disdain; every time she was paired with Shaggy and his dog, she never knew quite what to expect. She hated having to "baby sit" them, as it took time away from the search; yet, sometimes, their bumbling would uncover something that the younger girl had overlooked. She chuckled to herself, ultimately deciding that she didn't mind their companionship—it kept her spirits up kept her company. 

"Brrr," Shaggy blurted, wrapping his arms across his chest, "like, it's like a freezer down here."

Velma glanced upward at the ceiling. "That's because we are directly underneath the freon pipes—it's what they use to freeze the ice for hockey games." She carefully unfolded a map of the underground storage area. "If the pipes are here," she mused to herself, "then that means we should be right around the athlete's locker rooms." Concluding that there was no significant reason to search the locker rooms, she pointed down the hallway to an unlit area. "That way," she ordered. 

Her finger pointed down a dark, cavernous hallway; Shaggy and Scooby took one look and shook their heads. "No way," they uttered in unison. Velma rolled her eyes and sighed; she had expected it, but she still hated hearing it. 

"Like, why can't we just search the locker rooms?" protested Shaggy, "they're lit, and, like, they probably have vending machines."

The bespectacled girl shook her head. "It's too obvious," she stated. "If I were going to hide something, I would hide it some place that is not generally in use." She pointed to their general location on the map. "That corridor is where the dressing rooms are," she stated, "it's only used when there are rock concerts and similar performances." 

"Like, there was a rock concert here just a few days ago."

"Exactly. All the more reason to check out those rooms." 

"Well, have fun, Velma; we'll wait for you right here."

The younger girl shook her head. "I don't think so," she chided, shining her flashlight down the corridor, "now go."

Shaggy and Scooby remained resolute in their determination not to go. 

"Okay," Velma sighed, "you leave me no choice. Would you do it if I offered both of you a Scooby snack?" 

Shaggy and his dog instantly perked up; Velma mechanically threw two dog biscuits in the air in opposite directions; she hated reverting to that old ploy, but there was little else she could do at the moment. Their confidence level bolstered by the treats, Shaggy and Scooby forged ahead of the younger girl, the Great Dane keeping his nose to the ground, on the alert for any unusual scents. Velma smiled. _Daphne was right_, she thought to herself, _the way to that man's heart is through his stomach._

Scooby came to an abrupt stop in front of a door, freezing in a "point" position. "What'cha got there, old buddy?" Shaggy asked.

"Rogs."

"Dogs?" 

"Ruh uh, rogs. And rogfood." 

For the first time in a long while, Shaggy did not understand his dog's actions. "That's ridiculous," he scolded, "there can't be any dogs down here."

"I don't know," mused Velma, "Scooby seems awfully interested in what ever is behind that door; maybe we ought to check it out." The bespectacled girl pulled a bobby-pin from her hair and began methodically picking the lock; with an echoing _creak_, it swung open. 

Velma scanned the flashlight around the room, illuminating various objects with the bright beam. There didn't seem to be anything unusual in the room…

"ZOINKS!" Shaggy's terrified scream caught Velma off guard, causing her to drop the flashlight. 

"What is it this time?" she asked, annoyed, but also slightly apprehensive.

"Like, we're being watched!"

"Excuse me?" 

Shaggy pointed to a corner of the room. "Like, there are all these red and green beady eyes staring out from the walls!"

__

Red and green beady eyes? thought Velma, _I wonder…_she shined the flashlight in the direction that Shaggy was pointing. Indeed, a row of red and green beads **_was_** looking back at them…

Scooby, however, did not agree with his owner's assessment, and neither did Velma, once she got a closer look at the "eyes." 

"Jinkies! I think you may have helped to crack this case, Shaggy!"

"Huh?" replied the skinny man, "like, how?"

"I'll explain later, right now, let's head back upstairs and tell Fred and Daphne what we found."


	7. VII

****

VII

"…And we found the dogs in a darkened dressing room located underneath the arena," Velma reported. 

"Good job, guys," Fred praised.

"Actually, Scooby should get most of the credit," the bespectacled girl corrected, "it was his keen sense of smell that led us to the hiding place." She patted the Great Dane on his head, rewarding him with a Scooby Snack, which he promptly devoured. Yet, in spite of her accomplishments, a nagging feeling lingered in the back of Velma's mind. "We may have found the dogs," she began, "but we still don't have any concrete evidence as to who is the mastermind of this dog napping—not to mention we don't have a motive, either." The bespectacled girl clenched her first in frustration, her normally relaxed features riddled with doubt, as she began running through the possibilities, wondering if she had overlooked a potential clue. 

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Velmster," reassured Fred, putting his arm around the younger girl's shoulder, "not all culprits leave clean-cut trails. But I'm sure that with a little more searching, we'll find something that will crack this case wide open." The blond man winked at his cohort, eliciting a smile on her previously tense face. "That said, let's give this arena a good combing over, gang—all together."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

"Two hours of walking around this arena and not a single clue," sighed Daphne, sinking into a ringside chair. "Let's face it, guys, we may have hit a brick wall on this case." The redhead reached into her purse and pulled out a pocket mirror to examine her hair makeup. Her normally radiant complexion took on an oddly pale cast in the dimly lit arena. _That's odd,_ she thought to herself. _Either I didn't apply enough rouge, or I went overboard with the powder this morning. _Engrossed in reapplying her makeup, the redhead was completely oblivious to the scene unfolding near the arena ceiling. Only Shaggy's loud screech snapped her out of her reverie. 

"Zoinks! Like, guess who's about to drop in on the judging!" Fred, Velma and Daphne glanced towards the ceiling where the demonic sorceress had once again appeared. 

"This is your last warning! Leave now, or face the wrath of the Westminster witch!" The apparition began its rapid descent towards the arena floor, eyeing the English sheepdog standing in the center of the ring. 

Shaggy and Scooby didn't need a second warning. "Like, we were just leaving," the lanky man stuttered, grabbing his dog by the collar. "Bye!" The pair ran from the ring and disappeared into the corridors, screaming hysterically. 

"Remember my warning," cackled the witch, as she disappeared in a cloud of green, sulphurous smoke, leaving Fred, Velma and Daphne coughing in the wake of her disappearance.

"Are you girls alright?" asked Fred, once the smoke had dissipated.

"I'm fine," Velma replied, looking around and not seeing her skinny cohort and his dog. "But now it looks like we're not just looking for clues, but we'll be looking for Shaggy and Scooby too."

"Velma?" It was Daphne's voice calling her. "Come over here, I think I found something."

The younger girl quickly rushed to her friend's side. "What do you make of this?" asked Daphne, showing the younger girl the tiny object.

"You're the fashion expert, Daph," Velma commented, "but it looks like a brooch to me." 

"Exactly—and in the shape of a dog."

Velma frowned. "With all the dog lovers here, that pin could belong to anyone; it really doesn't prove anything."

"Let me see it for a moment," suggested Fred, jumping into the analysis. His face brightened as he got a closer look at the pin. "No, it **_does_** prove something," he announced. "I've seen that pin before, and I know who it belongs to."

Fred's contradiction only renewed the frustration that Velma had felt earlier in the day. _I must be losing my touch_, she thought sadly to herself. As she turned to leave, a shiny object lying near the center of the ring caught her eye. Intrigued, she walked over to take a closer look at it —it was a small, brass key ring engraved with the letters "M.L." The bespectacled girl's lips formed into a broad smile. The joy at having found something dispelled the last traces of her lingering self-doubt. _Yesss!_ she cheered to herself. She hadn't lost her touch after all; this was the piece of the puzzle she had been looking for.

"I think it's time we set a trap," she began, "but first of all, we'd better find Shaggy and Scooby—this plan won't work without them." 

"You buzzed?" Shaggy asked, as if he knew that the others were looking for him. "Like, we were just taking a little snack break," he said, shoving a handful of nacho tortilla chips into his mouth and taking a sip of a slush drink. "This place is great," he blurted, between mouthfuls. "Like, there are even some sit-down restaurants here." 

Back in the grooming area, Velma gathered the others around as she explained her plan. "We'll need everybody's help on this one," she began. "Marc, round up as many of the Great Dane exhibitors as you can; Fred, go talk to Mister Preston in scheduling—tell him to call Valerie to announce that the show will go on as planned, and that we would like her to be here to supervise the judging. And Mister Durraley, you and Shaggy go talk to the announcer in the booth—tell him that there has been a scheduling change and that the Great Danes will be competing earlier than anticipated." 


	8. VIII

****

VIII

"This had better be worth it," grumbled Daphne. "It took two bottles of talcum powder to cover that dog." She frowned as she looked at the disheveled, powder puff she held in her hand; it was covered in Great Dane hair. "And my powder applicator will never be the same," she groaned. "Yuck!!" 

Fred and Shaggy looked at the powder covered Scooby, who now sported a white coat with black patches. "Good job, girls," praised Fred, "now no one will know that that dog is not Champion Durraley's Domineering Danois Darling." 

Velma stifled a laugh. "Except that Scooby is a boy," she giggled. 

"Well, we'll just have to hope that the judge is nearsighted," quipped Daphne. Seconds later, the two girls burst out laughing. 

"You'll need to put this on your left arm," Preston instructed, handing Shaggy the numbered armband, "and remove Scooby's collar—the dogs are not permitted to wear accessories in the judging ring." Shaggy dutifully removed the collar, replacing it with the woven show leash. 

Fred gave the pair one final look over. "Remember, guys, act confident," he instructed Shaggy.

"Gotcha."

"And Scooby, walk proudly—you're a champion show dog, remember."

"Rright," the Dane barked. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

**__**

"Now judging, in ring seven, the Great Danes."

"That's your cue, guys," Fred whispered, sending Shaggy, Marc and the other Dane exhibitors into the judging arena. 

"Like, what do we do?" Shaggy asked, under his breath. He had never been to a dog show before a spectator, and had certainly never set foot in a show ring. 

"Just follow us," Marc whispered back, "and do what we do."

**__**

"In spite of its name sake, the Great Dane actually hails from Germany, where it was originally bred to hunt wild boar."

The dogs and their handlers broke into a clip trot around the ring. Not accustomed to running alongside of Shaggy, Scooby's gait was somewhat awkward, and he lagged behind frequently, eliciting strange looks from the judge. 

**__**

"Now standing in front of the judge is Champion Durraley's Domineering Danois Darling. 'Dee Dee' is a favorite to take Best of Breed for the Great Danes, and is a front runner for Best in Show this year."

From the front row of seats, Fred, Velma and Daphne watched the "judging," the blond man hoping that the witch would take his bait. Although he was frequently in charge of organizing and planning traps, his plans were not infallible, especially where Shaggy and Scooby were concerned. A momentary shudder ran through the blond man as he recalled how many of his traps had been ruined as a result of Shaggy and Scooby's bumbling; he kept his fingers crossed that they wouldn't bungle this one. But even if they did, at least he and the girls were on site to salvage the situation. 

The blond man kept his eyes focused on the decoy. Scooby and Shaggy marched confidently in the ring, pausing in front of the judge for examination. The judge ran his hands over Scooby's body, carefully scrutinizing the dog against the breed standard. He lifted his hands and turned them over to find that the palms were covered in white powder. "What the..?" he muttered, scowling at Shaggy. 

The skinny hippie favored the judge with a toothy grin and a meek chuckle, but before the judge could respond, the arena lights flickered and dimmed, the soft, yellow fluorescent glow replaced by the now too familiar eerie green one. In a flash of bright green light, the witch appeared, suspended in midair above the judging ring. "This is your final warning!" she cackled. "Leave now, or suffer the curse of the witch of Westminster!" 

The demonic sorceress swooped down from the ceiling, making a beeline for Scooby. Terrified, the Great Dane reared on his hind legs and yowled, pulling the flimsy cloth leash right out of Shaggy's hands. "No! Scoob!" the skinny man scolded, but the admonition came too late; Scooby tucked his tail between his legs and followed his instincts—he ran. The witch uttered another unearthly cackle, seizing the Great Dane around his chest and underbelly. Scooby struggled and kicked, trying desperately to free himself from the dognapper's grip.

"Remember my warning!" the apparition cackled, as it retreated back into the rafters; but the witch had underestimated the weight of the giant dog. Scooby's weight, combined with the sorceress's, was more than could be suspended from the arena ceiling. The pair swung wildly back and forth, the dog's rash motions sending the witch twirling around in a dizzying aerial ballet. 

From somewhere high in the rafters came the sound of a cable fraying. Hearing the sound, the witch tried desperately to readjust her weight, but in vain; with an audible SNAP, the cable gave way, sending the witch plummeting to the arena floor, and leaving a terrified Scooby momentarily suspended in mid-air. Moments later, the giant dog began his descent, ending with a three point landing right on top of the witch; the force of his fall knocked the breath out of the "apparition" who now lay face down on the Garden floor. 

From his post in the front row, Fred proudly watched the spectacle. "That's exactly how I planned it!" he declared. 

Velma and Daphne rolled their eyes. "Oh brother!" they both sighed. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Get off me you stupid mutt!" came a disgruntled, female voice from underneath the dog. 

Fred and the girls, accompanied by the security guard who earlier, had refused entry to Shaggy and Scooby, rushed to the scene in the center of the ring. Casually leaning over, Fred mechanically yanked the witch mask off the bedraggled culprit, as if such a task was routine for him. The former "witch" scowled at the blond man.

"Melissa McDaniels?!" Valerie announced. 

Velma gave the older woman a dirty look. "Yes, Melissa McDaniels," echoed Velma, "or should we say, Melissa _Lamar--_Lamar is Melissa McDaniels' maiden name, and Melissa is none other than Valerie's daughter!" 

Valerie drew back in shock at the bespectacled girl's accusation. "Just what proof do you have of that?" she asked, incredulously.

"After nabbing that English Sheepdog, the witch left behind two items," explained Velma. "A monogrammed key chain with the initials M.L., and a tiny brooch in the shape of a dog." 

"The same brooch that Melissa wore on her suit when we first met her," continued Fred. "Putting these two clues together, we concluded that M.L. stood for 'Melissa Lamar.'" 

Mother and daughter scowled at one another.

"This whole witch incident was nothing more than a scheme by Melissa and her mother to guarantee that their dog would win best in show this year." asserted Velma. "Melissa entered the show under her married name so that no one would be suspicious when they found that her last name matched that of the kennel club's secretary, her mother." 

"As the show superintendent, and club secretary, Valerie knew the legend of the Westminster curse," continued Fred. "So she used that legend to cover up the dogs' mysterious disappearances."

"That explains why Valerie was so insistent in letting the show go on," said Daphne. "If it were to be cancelled, then all of her efforts and those of her daughter would have been for naught."

"Exactly," said Fred, backing up the girls' statements, "and as a former gymnast, Melissa had no difficulty maneuvering in the harness that allowed her to hang from the ceiling. The strobe lighting and smoke screens were left overs from her husband's rock concert the week before."

"Since the Garden is an indoor facility," continued Velma, "the smoke would not dissipate as quickly as it would outdoors, thereby giving Melissa enough time to dismount from the apparatus and hand the dogs off to her husband who would then take them into the dressing room underneath the arena."

"So, like, that whole story about 'Jay Jay isn't my dog' was a fake?" asked Shaggy.

"No, it was true," clarified Velma. "Jeremy McDaniels is the registered owner of Jerimiah's Jumping Jericoh, but because of his career, he doesn't have the requisite time to devote to showing the dog--that was Melissa's job."

"Melissa denied being involved in dog showing, but while Fred and I were at her apartment, I was admiring the trophies that were on display in her bookshelves," commented Daphne. "Melissa claimed she won them during her years as a gymnast in college, but when was the last time you saw dog statuettes given as trophies in a gymnastics competition?" 

"Good work, kids," the guard commented, "I'll take Melissa and Valerie up to my office until the authorities can take them into custody." Following his pronouncement, he looked sheepishly in Shaggy and Scooby's direction. "Looks like I owe you two an apology," he uttered. "And for your sake, I'm happy that your grandmother isn't really that ugly." The others, save for Melissa and Valerie, burst out laughing heartily; even the hard-nosed security guard found himself grinning at his own comment. 

Melissa and Valerie scowled at the gang, disgusted that the laughs that everyone seemed to be having at the expense of the two women and their dog. "You brats ruined everything!" growled Melissa. "I would have won best-in-show this year if…"

"If it hadn't been for us meddling kids!" the gang chorused, mechanically, unfazed by the accusation that they had heard countless times before. 


	9. Epilogue

****

Epilogue

"It sure was nice of Mister Wyndham to get us these front row seats," commented Daphne, as she and the others watched the final segment of competition for the show. 

"Yeah, and, like, Mister Dale even promised Scooby a special reward for having caught the witch," commented Shaggy. The dog in question fixated on the show ring, while at the same time, pondering what his 'big reward' might be. 

"Shh, guys," Velma whispered, "they're just about to announce this year's Best in Show winner." 

"And, the winner of the 2003 Westminster Kennel Club Sterling Perpetual Trophy is…" A sudden hush fell over the arena as both spectators and handlers anxiously awaited the judge's pronouncement. "…Champion Danny Boy, Lad of Kilarney, the Kerry Blue Terrier!**" Thunderous applause arose from the seats and the arena exploded in a sea of flashbulbs as the judge presented Danny and his handler with a large, sterling silver bowl. "Congratulations, sir," he announced, shaking the man's hand, "you are the 2003 winner of the Westminster Kennel Club show." 

As the applause subsided, an audio technician walked into the ring, handing the judge a microphone. "In addition to Best in Show, we have another special prize to give out this year. This particular prize has never before been awarded in the 123 year history of this show, and in fact, the winner was not even a registered competitor at Westminster. But were it not for the accomplishments of this dog and his talented team of handlers, this year's competition would not have reached this stage." The judge turned and raised his hand towards the front row of seats. "Ladies and Gentlemen, please give a round of applause for this year's honorary winner and his handlers: Scooby Doo, and the kids from Mystery Inc.!" 

To the sound of applause, the four kids walked to the center of the ring, Scooby walking proudly alongside Shaggy, his head held high, like a trained show dog. 

The ring judge addressed each of the kids by name. "Scooby-Doo, Shaggy Rogers, Velma Dinkley, Fred Jones and Daphne Blake, in recognition for your accomplishments, the board of directors of the Westminster Kennel Club is proud to present you with a replica of the Sterling Perpetual Trophy." The four humans flanked the judge, accepting the award collectively. "Had you not solved this particular case, not only would we have had to cancel the show, but the sportsmanship and the integrity of our institution would have been severely compromised. I congratulate you on a job well done, and thank you for solving the mystery." 

As the crowd applauded, a second ring judge approached Scooby and placed a multi-colored rosette ribbon on his collar. 

"Congratulations, kids," announced Marc Wyndham, "a job well done, as usual."

Daphne turned around to find Kala and Scooby nose-to-nose, their tails wagging furiously. 

"What have you got to say for yourself, old buddy?" asked Shaggy.

The dog had only one reply. "Scooby-Dooby-Dooooo!" he howled, as the other seven dogs joined him in a celebratory howl. 

**_Those of you who watched this year's competition will recall that a Kerry Blue Terrier named "Mick" did win "Best in S how," but as "Mick" is still an active show dog, I could not use him in the story. If anyone is still puzzled by the dogs mentioned in this story, or by the technicalities of dog showing, feel free to visit the official website of the Westminster Kennel Club show_. 


End file.
